


Don't Kick Me Out

by orphan_account



Series: Sherstrade Domesticity [7]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blow-out, First Fight, First Row, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, Trust, Trust Issues, argument, fears
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-04
Updated: 2017-02-04
Packaged: 2018-09-21 21:51:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9568403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Greg and Sherlock have their first screaming row when Greg lets Sherlock down at a crime scene. Sherlock is understandably angry and Greg goes straight for the heart to try and pull the man he loves back to the reasons they work in the most intimate of ways.‘You remember, Sherlock, I know you do.’ Greg insisted, his throat feeling tight with emotion. His stomach churned with his guilt and his heart thud with the idea that he might just have lost Sherlock.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Linked with 'I Kissed The Rim of Morning' as a sort of timeline measure, and for the line 'don't kick me out' to make sense.

‘Yeah, that’s it. Throw a strop because you’re not getting your way.’ Greg spat with venom, leaning against the breakfast bar as he watched Sherlock upend the drinks table in the lounge with a fierce growl. ‘Physical violence solves it all, doesn’t it Kid? You standing here wrecking the place changes Sally’s opinion of you, doesn’t it? So by all means, trash the fucking lounge…’ 

‘Oh, shut up.’ Sherlock turned to him, his face red and eyes watering, and yelled as loudly as he could force through his vocal cords. ‘I’m allowed to be mad, alright! I’m allowed to be mad.’ 

‘Mad, yeah,’ Greg nodded sarcastically, ‘Psychotic, no.’ He folded his arms across his torso. ‘You’re just proving their point right now, you know? Raising my lounge to the ground is playing into the ideas that they have about you - it’s just a pity they’re not here to see how right they are when they call you _freak_.’ 

As the rant flew from his mouth Greg knew he would regret it, but he also knew he couldn’t take back what had already been said. He watched Sherlock’s face and knew the exact moment that his words had sunk through his thick skull and settled into his analytical mind. He opened his mouth to speak but knew that nothing he said would patch this particular wound. He hadn’t meant it, of course - never in his time of knowing Sherlock had he ever thought that he was a ‘freak’, or ‘weird’, or anything but just ‘Sherlock’. He had his eccentricities, sure, but Greg had always loved them; even the parts he found bothersome at times. 

Sherlock’s back straightened and his lips drew in tightly. Greg took a step toward him and Sherlock took one back. The room around him was destroyed - the table was on its arse, the couch was free of its cushions and the lamp that had been beside the television when they had returned home was now on its side with its glass shade shattered. Greg took another step and Sherlock went back once more, holding out his hand to Greg immediately, ‘Don’t.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t want you to touch me.’ 

‘I didn’t mean it.’ Greg defended himself, ‘You say you’re allowed to be mad, well I got mad too. You think I like hearing the way they talk to or about you? You think that I like seeing you this upset?’ 

Sherlock swallowed around his constricting throat, and shrugged his shoulders. ‘How do I know? You didn’t tell her to stop.’ 

The truth was that Greg warned Sally about her penchant for nicknaming Sherlock everything derogatory she could think of on a daily basis. She and Anderson were constantly subjected to his withering looks whenever Sherlock’s name was mentioned and it was quickly twisted into ‘Freak’, or ‘Frankenstein’. Greg shook his head, because Sherlock was right. With them all standing in the middle of that car park behind the shopping centre, Sally had yelled _‘Oi, Freakazoid’_ , and Greg had not said a word. He sighed, and shook his head again. ‘No, I know I didn’t.’ He shrugged his shoulders, ‘...and I’m sorry, Sherlock.’ 

Sherlock stepped back once again as Greg made another attempt to approach him, bringing him right up against the fireplace. ‘I said I don’t want you to touch me.’ Sherlock warned in a growl. 

‘There’s glass all over the carpet from the lamp. Kid, please, you’re going to cut yourself.’ Greg insisted, pointing to the shambles of shards on the floor, just to Sherlock’s left. 

‘Stop it, stop calling me _Kid_. I hate it! I hate the way everything sounds coming out of your mouth right now. Nothing is going to fix it, Lestrade!’ Sherlock yelled. 

Greg’s heart hurt at the use of his surname. It had been months since Sherlock had done that - been so blunt as to simply call him Lestrade - and Greg knew in the simple uttering of his last name that the trust Sherlock had built up in him had been washed away. He didn’t blame him, though. How could he? Sherlock had been verbally abused for half the evening by two people that Greg begged him to work with and all the while Greg had stood back, in silence, and not once stood up for the man he loved. They say that the measure of true trust in a relationship is not how somebody acts in your presence, but how they speak in your absence. Perhaps that’s true - but for Sherlock, validation needed to come right there, in front of his eyes, for him to be able to trust. And Greg knew, in doing nothing when normally he would have, he had pulled the plug and let everything he and Sherlock had worked on slip down the drain. 

‘Sherlock, I’m sorry. I’m sorry she thinks that it’s okay to talk to you like that and I am sorry that I didn’t stick up for you. I wish I had, I wish I’d opened my mouth and told her to shut hers but I didn’t and you’re right-,’ he thrust his hand out toward Sherlock, ‘Nothing will fix that I didn’t do what I should have. But I can’t go back in time, either. I can’t rewind the tapes and make something that didn’t happen _happen_. All I can do is show you that I can make it happen in the future, show you that you can trust me.’ 

‘I can’t,’ Sherlock spat. 

Greg closed his eyes to the bitterness, feeling his heart pound against his ribcage. ‘When we kicked this off, do you remember what you said to me?’ Greg asked. ‘When you turned up here, after Victor went off on you? You came and we sat on that couch,’ he gestured his hand to the sofa, ‘And we kissed and it was going further and you stopped me and said…’ he looked at Sherlock, urging him to remember. ‘Come on, Sherlock. You said…’ 

Sherlock’s face crumpled as tears brewed hot in his eyes. ‘I said…,’ he licked his lips. He flicked his fingers together nervously at his sides. 

‘You remember, Sherlock, I know you do.’ Greg insisted, his throat feeling tight with emotion. His stomach churned with his guilt and his heart thud with the idea that he might just have lost Sherlock.

‘I said...when you wake up, um, and, um, remember what we did...don’t kick me out.’ Sherlock breathed deeply, blinking to push the tears from his vision and sent them tumbling down his cheeks. 

‘ _Don’t kick me out_ ,’ Greg repeated and nodded his head. ‘You said don’t kick me out, and I didn’t. And I’ve proved to you every single day since that kicking you out is the last thing I want. And okay, I fucked up tonight because I didn’t stand up to her - but she’s insignificant where you and I are concerned Sherlock. So don’t _you_ kick _me_ out. Don’t push me away because I made a mistake. Because losing you this far in would break my ...fucking heart.’ He breathed deeply, trying to school his emotions. ‘I took a chance on you too, you know.’ he countered. ‘I didn’t know what was in store for me with you, just as much as you didn’t…. You’re not the only one who gets scared, Sherlock. I shit myself daily, wondering if you’re going to decide this isn’t right - wondering if I’m not right.’ 

Sherlock rubbed the backs of his hands across his cheeks, pushing the tears away as quickly as they fell. He stared back at Greg with the sofa and Sherlock’s destruction between them. He swallowed over the painful clog in his throat and tried to calm down, unable to decide if his anger was higher, or his sadness. He felt heartbroken and scared and as though he’d experienced the loss of a parent. Everything hurt, inside and out, and all he wanted to do was scream and sob and hope that that numbed it - failing that, the needle would do. 

‘I love you, Kid. And we’re gonna make mistakes, but it doesn’t mean that the love is gone, that the trust isn’t there, it just means that we need to keep going, keep learning, so that it doesn’t happen again.’ Greg spoke with remarkable clarity despite the guilt and grief swimming inside of him. ‘Don’t kick me out, Sherlock….’

Sherlock sniffed and brought both hands to his face. He covered his eyes with his palms, before smoothing his hair back with both hands. He kept his fingers raked in his curls and his elbows jutting out, and stared back at Greg. He dropped his arms and shook his head. ‘I’m not,’ he whispered, blinking as more tears gleamed in his darkened eyes. ‘I’m not...kicking you out.’ He licked his lips and cried openly. ‘I’m not...I’m not…’ 

Greg crossed the void, bridging the distance emotionally as much as physically, and grabbed Sherlock into his arms. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s neck and pulled him in tightly, one hand held the back of Sherlock’s head and the other snaked down to wrap around his body. ‘I’m sorry….’ Greg whispered into Sherlock’s ear, hopeful that the young man was listening. He rocked their bodies together side to side, soothing Sherlock in the only way he knew how; by offering him proof. ‘I’m here, and I’m so so sorry.’


End file.
